Bullseye: When a White Girl Steps on Your Foot

It’s incredibly jolting
to remember yoru context
between braided steps in a packed room

Eleven PM
Three drinks in
and while the floor shook
I convinced my feet to move faster

smooth guitar and djembe carving out
bachata and merengue
it was these moments
where I felt beautiful

A shooting star rather
than a moving target

But maybe the lights
weren’t bright enough

because when I looked towards the stage
trying to engage the army of musicians
who somehow minded my heartbeat—

I only saw the gleam of a screen
capturing a snapchat story
the caption read
“they’re from Peru, #culture”

The floor seemed to stop moving
and I remembered this place
wasn’t meant to be mine

The snap would be documented with everything else
a visual history of self
from her morning coffee #caffeineplease
To her afternoon commute #TGIF
And now a millennia of national pride—reduced to one punchline
#culture

Like a mix between a vulture and magpie
picking scraps that shine
while leaving behind
a room forcing a smile

The floor seemed to stop moving
and I remembered this place
wasn’t meant to be mine

From the man at the bar
who assumed cuervo was my means to an end

to the girl who called me “chica”  
like she was my friend.

to the model in the ironic fedora who
marcarena’d into my salsa, crashing into me
--and I was the one who said sorry

I could tuck this story away
force a smile and fade

Shooting stars emit no cry
emblazoned in the night sky

But look closer—and you’ll see red
bullseye